This Shredded Throat Will Try to Sing
by Wofl
Summary: A year in Munich. HeiEd. Movie Spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

* * *

In the spring, they celebrate their one-year anniversary. The air in Germany is damp, as per usual, but Alfons has lived with dreary weather all his life and after living here for over a year, Edward has grown used to it. They don't go out; it is a private affair, a secret shared between just the two of them and not meant for other ears. Even if they_ had_ wanted to publicly celebrate, they could not afford to. 

Alfons doesn't mind in the slightest. He light candles and cooks the best meal that their budget will allow and Edward seems overly affectionate, teasing him as he stands over the stove. A heavy hand wraps around Alfons' waist and he feels the smaller boy rest his head on his back, right between his shoulder blades.

He does protest, however, when Ed tries to pull him away from the meal his is cooking. At first he simply refuses Ed's advances, but as the hand grows more insistent and starts straying lower than Alfons' waist, the younger boy is forced to take more drastic measures. He smacks the fingers pawing at his shirt away with a spatula and Ed makes a sound like that of a wounded animal. Alfons turns around and fixes Edward – who is sucking on his assaulted digits and looking, for all the world, as if someone has just run over his puppy- with an exasperated quirk of his eyebrow.

"Don't be dramatic," Alfons tells him flatly, offering the blonde no sympathy in the matter. "Do you want the food to burn?"

Edward drops his eyes to the side and offers no reply and Alfons recognizes this as Ed's way of admitting defeat. He presents a smile in lieu of a peace offering and tells the older boy to go find something to occupy himself with while he cooks. Ed sulks out of the room, just to maintain the illusion, and Alfons turns back to the stove, smile still in place.

When the food is prepared and placed out on the table, the younger boy goes in search of his dinner date. He discovers a mess in the living room, papers and books and charts scattered about in little flurries of white. And there is Edward, sprawled out amongst all of it, nose buried deep into a book and Alfons frowns at the way he is squinting at the print.

"You need glasses," He informs the boy, crossing the room in just a few steps. He holds out his hand to help Edward up and the older boy scowls as his takes it. He staggers to his feet, taking a long moment to secure his balance before he allows Alfons' hand to slip from his. He sticks his tongue out at Alfons in response to the remark about his vision, but follows his lover obediently down the hall for dinner.

There is nothing romantic about the way Ed eats. It is almost mesmerizing, the way he can _inhale_ a meal, and Alfonse thinks it _would_ be a hypnotic experience if not for the fact that Edward always finished almost as soon as he'd started.

In the bedroom, however, it is a different story. There, Edward possesses all the poise and charm that he lacks at the table. How he manages it, even as he allows himself to be made helpless - lets Alfons strip him of his prosthetics – bare and broken and he is still beautiful. Alfons bends forward and presses saccharine lips to Ed's collarbone. He licks and sucks and tongues his way down Edward's torso, leaving wet trails across the boy's skin. Edward gasps and whines and writhes beneath these ministrations, but Alfons does not relent. He demonstrates, to Ed, how one can use his mouth without words.

* * *

Summer is bittersweet; like not-quite-ripe raspberries growing in the sun, tantalizing with the promise of sticky sweet flavor and the possibility of pies. They are not quite the right shade of pink, but near enough that you can't resist trying a few. It is hot and humid with the rain that visits frequently, but not as often as it had a month before. 

Alfons' cough, no longer irritated and exasperated by bitter chills and constant nasty weather, eases a bit. He feels better than he has in a long time, his senses alert, eyes shining and he laughs. He laughs constantly, unable to repress his smiles, most of which are provoked by the person he shares his apartment and bed with.

And Edward, he is like the sunshine. Fierce and bright, with an explosive temper, but he also has a soft spot that gapes like an open wound and Alfons knows, by now, the exact way to take advantage of it. He presses, Edward gives, and they meet somewhere in the middle, usually with a set of sheets above them and a mattress below.

This is the summer that Alfons learns of Ed's status as a sex god, and can offer nothing but praise to his golden deity. When he sets his mind to it, Edward can make him come in less than five minutes and other times, when speed has no merit and every expression Edward makes involves slitted eyes and a lazy grin, he can take as long as he needs.

He can take_ hours_ if he so desires, the bastard; and by the time Edward decides to stray down the path of mercy, Alfonse is weeping with the sheer force of _want_ that makes his blood boil and scream from lack of oxygen.

But it is worth it…so worth it, just to be able to lie in the afterglow, one firm, muscled arm wrapped tightly around him, and a slightly heaving chest for him to cling to, pressed together, alone, complete, infinite.

Ed is the one to disturb the peace first. He wiggles and squirms in Alfons' arms and after a few moments of this odd behavior, he extracts himself from the younger boy's grip and scoots towards the edge of the bed. "'M all sticky." He declares, voice still a bit rusty, "I need a bath."

With a barely audible exhale of breath, Alfons climbs from the furniture as well and scoops up Ed's abandoned prosthetics, carrying them in one hand. He offers the other to Ed and assists him on his way to the bathroom. He leaves the limbs on the counter that houses the sink and shuts the door behind him.

They rarely bathe together. Alfons prefers showers and Ed's condition necessitates baths. But that is not the true reason, merely a convenient excuse Edward hides behind. Alfons knows the true reason is that although Edward has no qualms about letting Alfons know that he lacks limbs, he feels uncomfortable letting anyone, even Alfons, see his deficiencies. He doesn't want him to know that something even as simple as bathing is a difficult task for Edward.

So Alfons leaves him to bathe in peace, allowing him his dignity and he goes back into the bedroom to change the sheets as he waits for his turn in the bathroom. It is nearly an hour before he hears the creaking of a door echoing from down the hall and soon he can hear Ed's heavy mismatched footsteps approaching. He appears around the corner, still fidgeting with the prosthetic arm, trying to get it into a comfortable position, and Alfons blames this distraction for the fact that Ed walks face first into the doorframe.

Edward scowls and turns red, flesh hand rising to scrub at his injured nose, but it is his pride that has taken most of the beating. Alfons tries, desperately, not to laugh, but the corners of his mouth betray him and when Edward glances up, cheeks still tinged with embarrassment and just glares, daring Alfonse to say one word…just one, Alfonse thinks that he should do things to make the older boy blush more often, because it's _damn _cute.

At that thought, Alfons loses it. He snorts, ungracefully, and tilts his head, coving his mouth with his hand; but it does nothing to stifle the snickers that quickly turn to hysterical laughter. Edward is yelling something and Alfons can't tell what it is amidst his own laughter and somehow, that just makes it _funnier_.

Alfons collapses to the floor in a fit of giggles that make his cheeks and stomach hurt and Edward yells a while more before flipping him off and stalking out of the room, still naked from his bath. He returns, however, a moment later, when the laughter subsides abruptly and is replaced by hacking coughs. It is amazing, how quickly the older boy's attitude can change. He kneels beside Alfons, a nervous hand on his back and Alfons feels as if his lungs are trying to turn themselves inside out. It is not an unfamiliar feeling, but it is far from pleasant and Alfons hates, HATES, _HATES_ the ache in his chest, the overwhelming sense of frailty.

Edward frets, Alfonse coughs, and some broken, unfinished sentence hangs between the two, spoken only by a set of worried bronze eyes.

"You okay?" Edward asks when the coughing finally subsides, and Alfons nods. Edward goes to get him a drink and Alfons massages his throat absently. It's been a while since his last coughing fit…maybe three or four days. Edward returns with a glass of water and settles on the floor beside him. Alfons accepts the drink and Edward leans against his shoulder, uncharacteristically clingy, and the younger boy knows that he is worried, even if he won't say anything out loud.

* * *

_ TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

It does not occur to Alfons until a week or so later, that Edward seems to have developed a knack for bumping into things. The pieces don't connect until the night he catches Ed in the den, reading as usual, face mere inches from the pages. Alfons is used to Edward reading this way when evening begins to set in and he is too distracted to turn on the lamp, but now, the lamp is on and Edward is right beside it. He doesn't comment on the phenomenon immediately, knowing how easily ruffled Ed gets, but still frets when he catches Ed squinting, despite his close proximity to the book. 

He catches him again, a few nights later. This time, Edward squeezes his eyes shut tightly a few times, rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm and shakes his head before going back to his reading…only to repeat the process all over again Alfons thinks, and decided that something needs to be done, and before the summer ends and their budget tightens up with the need for more fuel and the heightened rent.

"Edward," he starts, tone dangling precariously halfway between timid and annoyed, (he's not sure which he should be) and he reaches over, grabbing the edge of Ed's book and pulling it away.

"Hey!" Edward glares up at him and tries to take his book back, but Alfons doesn't allow him to, returning Edward's fierce glare with an unimpressed expression of his own and a few seconds later, the older boy relents. "What is it?" he grouses irritably.

"You're squinting again." Alfons taps the pages of the book Edward was reading with two fingers.

"So?"

"So, the lighting isn't even bad in here, you don't have any excuses." Alfons continues. He knows that if he wants to get Edward to do something he doesn't want to, he's going to have to back him into a corner first.

"…Soooo…..?" Edward stares at his brother's alter blankly, and it is obvious that he can't tell what point Alfons is trying to make.

"So," Alfons leans over, pressing his weight down on top of the smaller boy, "that mean, tomorrow I am taking you to see a doctor."

Edward avoids the kiss that Alfons tries to give him and squirms beneath the boy. "What? Why?"

"Because you need glasses," he says, pinning Edward down and refusing to release him. Edward struggles a bit more until he is panting with the effort and goes slack and Alfons takes the temporary lapse in movement to steal a kiss. "And I'm not going to argue about it with you. I want you to promise me you'll go."

Edward snarls and stubbornly rubs at the spot where Alfons' lips had touched his skin as if he's a school child brushing away cooties. "You're a jerk; you know that Alfons?"

Alfons smiles and dutifully presses another kiss to Ed's cheek, much to Edward's annoyance. "Yes, and you know you love me, despite my almighty jerkiness."

This time Edward succeeds in unseating his lover and Alfons abruptly finds himself making friends with the floor, and Edward shows him no sympathy when he complains of the bruises he'll have.

* * *

When the mail comes in a week later, there is a dubious package mixed in amongst the bills. Edward regards it with disdain, but Alfons finds him before he can hide it away somewhere and bullies him into opening it.

"Well," Alfons encourages when the packaging falls away and the fragile frames with specialized glass set within them rest in Edward's palm, "put them on."

Edward complies, hesitantly, and settles the glasses on his face. He scowls, momentarily, clearly unimpressed, but then, he actually takes the time to _look _and he adopts a startled expression. He blinks, surprise still there, and his eyes grow wide behind the layer of glass. Alfons laughs.

"See Ed?" He steps closer to the older boy and presses up against him, nuzzling Ed's chin with the top of his head.

"Yeah! I can!" Ed's incredulous tone gives his lover more cause to chuckle and Alfons wraps around the shorter boy, who is still blinking amazedly. Al gives him another moment to look, breath stolen by the brilliance of Edward's smile. It is rare, for Edward to smiles like this, or at all, more often than not.

Edward is still homesick, Alfons knows. He misses his brother desperately, though he tries not to let on. Alfons has lain awake, more than once, watching his lover toss and turn and cry out for a boy that shares his name, but is not him. And though it hurts, burns through his chest, Alfons too, knows the desolation and despair of losing a sibling, and no matter what he feels, he cannot bring himself to hold a grudge against Edward. He just tries all the harder to turn their apartment into a place Edward can call home.

* * *

Alfons is surprised, the morning he awakens and realizes that the parts of him that aren't in direct contact with Edward are cold. He slips from the bed and investigates the world that lies outside the window. There's not much to see, dirty streets and monochromatic buildings; but a short distance down the road is a small park, and Alfons can see that the trees that grow there have begun to shed their leaves.

How fall has managed to sneak up on them, he doesn't know, but he is sad to see the summer go. They are always happier when it's warm. Edward doesn't ache so much and Alfons doesn't cough as often and neither of them are worrying about freezing to death. But he thinks, maybe this year, things will be better. Alfons silently thanks Pandora for allowing the world to maintain an illusion of hope.

Edward stirs and admonishes for Alfons to come back to bed, but it is already midmorning and they haves slept in far too late already. He crosses to the bed and smirks as he grips the blankets. He tugs them away deftly and Edward squeals against the cold, curling into himself. "Alfons!"

"It's time to get up, lazy." He moves to the other side of the bed and ducks down, fishing Edward's prosthetics out from underneath. He stands up, only to realize that while he wasn't looking, Edward has stolen back the covers. Alfons dumps the limbs unceremoniously on top of Edward and confiscates the blankets again. "I'm going to get in the shower. You'd better be up by the time I get back."

Edward grumbles and Alfons yanks the pillow from underneath Ed's head for extra insurance. He leaves the room, heading for the shower with Edward at his back, snarling and yowling like a wildcat.

The bathroom door blocks out Edward's vocalized displeasure and it only takes Alfons a few seconds to undress. He turns the spigot and steps under the spray. He scrubs at his hair blissfully, enjoying his hot water while he can. He notes, sadly, that soon they will have to switch to taking lukewarm showers to save on heat. So, while the luxury is his, he takes his time, but takes care to leave enough hot water for Edward to draw a bath when it is his turn.

By the time he leaves the bathroom in a cloud of steam with nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips, Edward has managed to drag himself out of bed. He is nowhere to be seen, however. He sniffs the air, some foreign odor curling around his nostrils and he hears noises drifting in from the kitchen. Edward has done him one better than getting out of bed, Alfons realizes. Edward is cooking breakfast.

It is with a warm feeling in his heart that Alfons dresses himself and makes his way to the tiny apartment kitchen on the first day of fall. The room greets him with the wafting smell of fried eggs and toast; Edward is just pulling them off the stove. The boy ushers Alfons over to the table and makes him sit down and presents him with a plate of food and a peck on the lips.

Alfons blinks at him momentarily, but Edward does not stop to watch. He putters around the kitchen, humming to himself for another moment or so before he returns to the table with a plate of his own. For once, he takes the time to chew his food before sucking it down his throat, and he pauses, several times, to stare fondly at Alfons as he eats.

"What?" the younger boy demands after the fourth time he catches Ed doing this. He has a forkful of eggs halfway between his plate and his mouth, but they never reach their intended destination. Alfons sets the fork down and waits for Ed's reply instead.

Ed smiles and pushes his glasses up on his nose. "Don't tell me you forgot what today is?" Edward begins to laugh, just a bit.

"Apparently, I have." Alfons retorts, absolutely bewildered as to what special occasion he could have forgotten. He sincerely hopes it wasn't anything too important.

"Oh my God!" Edward giggles childishly and makes a funny snorting sound with his nose. "You forgot your own birthday!"

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

  
At first, Alfons can express little more than surprise; but when Edward shows no sign of relenting in his mockery, he grows annoyed. "Oh be quiet!" he snaps, flicking a bit of toast at the older boy's head. 

He doesn't. If anything, Edward laughs harder. Brat. Fantasies of revenge swim to the surface and Alfons fixes Edward with a sidelong glance.

It is without warning that the younger boy launches himself across the table, dishes rattling merrily; he makes a wild grab for Ed's ponytail, fingers flailing. Edward ducks out of the way just in time, toppling off his chair with breathy wheeze and he scrambles to his feet.

"Ha! Missed me!" Edward, voice tinged with glee, cheeks flushed, honey colored eyes bright with something Alfons has rarely seen before. As he scampers ebulliently out of the kitchen door; Alfons tears after him, teeth gritted with determination; feet thumping in the hallways, no heed paid to the complaints of neighbors above, below, on either side…they don't matter.

"You little…" the German growls, chasing Ed into the bedroom

"What did you call me?" Ed skids to a halt and whirls around to face Alfons. He opens his mouth to reveal tiger teeth and a temper to match, but Alfons doesn't let him. He tackles the boy, shoving him down onto the bed they share and pins him down.

"Hey!" Edward protests, squirming beneath the weight. A cornered animal has no choice but to bite, eyes wide, head snapping back as he jerks beneath the grip. No leverage, Alfons knows; the boy can't escape.

"Gotchya!" Alfons crows triumphantly before adopting a sly look that is all jackal grins and hungry amorous stares. He pins Edward's arms down by his side and sits across his thighs to keep the older boy from escaping and he bends forward, lips parting, teeth seeking shirt buttons. He tugs them, one by one, until the fabric falls away, revealing the smooth expanse of skin that lurks beneath the carapace of clothing.

"I think," Alfons murmurs, teeth releasing the leather straps that hold Edward's false limb in place, ignoring Edward's interjected cavils (they're all a part of the game, after all), "that it's time for you to give me my present."

The ersatz appendage falls away and Alfons is left with a free hand.

It strays and creeps, errant as the digits fumble for the side table drawer; lips preoccupied by their conquest of flesh. Alfons' fingers find what they are looking for and he draws the object out, the rope uncoiling into a soft pile on the pillow. Before Ed can protest, Alfons grasps the end and winds the thick woven fibers around Ed's remaining wrist.

A quick jerk and some skillful maneuvering later, Ed is bound firmly to the headboard, helpless to stop Alfons' nomadic fingertips.

His tongue does worse, however, straying across Edward's neck, traces saliva over his jaw to lap tentatively behind Edward's ear. Edward forgets about flailing and disintegrates…dissolves, flesh trembling with awakened nerves.

Poison apple lips peel back to reveal the deadly weapon concealed behind the flesh. Tongue darting tenaciously from it's point of ambush, flicking against the shell of Edward ear and the boy _squeals_ . Alfons' bones sing; an excitement that shocks through his entire existence.

He has never heard Edward make a noise like that before.

He appoints it his conquest to drag it out of the older boy as many times as he can.

Fabric rustles and Alfons takes his time, sliding the pants down over Edward's hips and Edward kicks his feet, impatient as always. The older boy is a dominant being, his views on sex fiercely intertwined with his pride. It is not often that Alfons gets to top; might as well make it last.

He takes the few extra seconds to remove Edward's pants completely, leaving the boy dressed only in his boxers.

Expertly, he reaches down to the artificial leg and releases a couple clasps. The leg comes away easily enough, and Alfons sets the prosthetic aside, nudging it under the bed with his toes. He trails his fingers lightly over the remaining stump, almost fondly.

It says something about Edward's trust, that he lets the younger boy remove his limbs and allows himself to be completely at Alfons' mercy.

He is filled with a sudden overwhelming fondness for the boy beneath him and he bends down to place a chaste kiss on the truncated limb. It's followed by another and another, each climbing higher than the last and Alfons kisses his way slowly up Edward's inner thigh, silent satisfaction found in the way the older boy trembles and kicks beneath each touch.

He lips at the edge of the boxers, when he reaches them, and takes the fabric in his teeth, giving it a sharp tug. And ah hah! There it is! Edward writhes and that gorgeous sound is echoing off the ceiling as the material rubs against the older boy's obvious erection.

Alfons takes mercy on the boy, if only to reward him for squirming so deliciously, and pulls the boxers out and away to finish removing them. Edward shudders visibly beneath him, and informs Alfons that this situation is hardly fair. Edward is confined and constricted and utterly bare and Alfons has yet to remove a single article of clothing. The younger boy smirks and works at the buttons of his own shirt, tails slipping from the restrictions of his pants and feathering over Edward's naked thighs.

One long gruesome pale scar rents its way down the center of Alfons' chest.

_Operation,_ He'd whispered to Edward, the first time the older boy had seen it, but had refused to explain further, in turn, he did not begrudge Edward, the times when the older boy twisted and curled into himself, phantom eyes and nostalgic expressions usurping his naturally attractive features. He did not press for information and Edward returned him the same courtesy, and they both hung suspended in a void of unshared secrets.

He shudders; remembering the way Edward had ghosted temperate digits across the marred flesh; had unbuttoned his own shirt to reveal similar scars, none so repugnantly huge, but the sheer number was overpowering. What life, what violent, macabre misadventures must this pseudo-stranger have led to gather such a collection of blemishes?

Imperfections criss-cross their way across Alfons' lover's entire body, and Alfons can do nothing but love him for them.


	4. Chapter 4

Fabric rustles faintly; the shirt drops heavily off the side of the bed. Alfons' fingers fumble at his belt, yanking at the leather with merciless haste. Finally, finally, the restriction comes free, and he sheds his pants far more quickly than he had his shirt. 

Edward is panting, now, thick, wet gasps that fill the room with their wantonness. Alfons bends over his lover, fingers seeking out the erogenous areas of his body, lips mimicking. A splash of heat as he laps at one nipple. He spreads his palm flat against the hard muscles of Ed's stomach, feeling them tense, skin damp with sweat. It's almost surprising, how little effort it takes to slide his hand down, digits curling reverently around Edward's cock.

A moan, tainted with a desperate note, strangles its way out of Edward's throat and he jerks his hips as best he can, whimpering when the limited movement brings him no relief. "Alfons..." He breaks off; can't even breathe. Not when Alfons is touching him like that.

"Patience," Alfons whispers, pulling away from Edward's chest to look at Edward fondly, "Is a virtue."

He reaches up with his free hand, pushing golden strands back away from the older boy's face, tucking the tresses behind his ears.

Fingers flex, rope fibers strained, but stubborn, hold their prey, and Edward is helpless. Good. Alfons smirks, lips dragging down the length of the older boy's torso, saliva trailing like the path of a snail across the pale skin. And then, a tongue, lapping at scorching flesh with broad, wet strokes.

It is a mess of limbs and fingers all moving, twining, and Alfons loves the way the moans fill the room, sweet symphony to celebrate the seasons. He laughs, when Edward, need and breathless, gathers enough wits to snap at him, tell him to get on with it or get off. Ah, typical Edward, brash and zealous in everything he does. With him, it is all or nothing.

Alfons smirks, pulls away with his mouth, and runs a single thump over the head of Edward's cock before abandoning the boy entirely. He ducks over the side of the bed, mindless to Edward's protests and digs around amongst the dust and occasional dirty sock until he finds the small bottle of lubricant tucked underneath the bed.

Edward kicks, impatiently, spreads his legs as wide as he can when Alfons brushes a finger across his inner thighs. He applies kisses to Edward's collarbone; teeth employed, when need be and oil to all the right places, care taken to make sure nothing will tear or hurt, and then, heat and pressure and sex is never, never, never a romantic thing.

It is sloppy and fast. Edward encourages him to go faster, _faster damnit_ , and his hips are reluctant to do anything but obey the older boy's wishes. His hand ensures that Edward's own erection gets proper attention and his breath is screaming in his lungs; belligerent injustices paid to his abused organs and Alfons doesn't care because his cock doesn't care. He can't breathe, can't stop, and Edward is spent, dripping and softening in Alfons' hand; and he can't bring himself to care about the semen spread and splattered across Ed's chest, as well as his own.

Thrusting is the only reality of the world. As long as there is motion - maddening, nerves howling - there is life, there is sense; and if it stops, Alfons is sure he will die because there is something there, some cosmic point he needs to reach before his hips can rest without his entire body imploding.

When he finally does stop thrusting, collapses, panting across Edward, Alfons is not sure whether he has reached that point or if his body has simply disintegrated into a million infinitesimal particles. He feels wrung out, exhausted, can't even bring himself to care that Edward is squirming and protesting beneath him. He dozes for an undetermined span of time before he's jostled awake again, by both a flailing leg and a sharp voice barking in his ears.

"Alfons," Edward is howling, irritated and kicking at him as best he's able. The boy is still tied, helpless to move away from the boy on top of him. Alfons blinks, pushing himself up and off the boy's chest, frowning at the sticky residue that has just about dried on both their torsos.

He yawns, still tired, and thinks he has not been allowed to sleep _nearly_ as long as he'd have liked to, but Edward is grousing, and still kicking him.

"Get off, damnit," the smaller boy admonishes, "you're still_ in_ me."

"Oh!" Alfons exclaims. No wonder. Edward can't be anything but uncomfortable, he knows. The boy will be sore later; moreso because he does not bottom often. Sheepishly, he offers an apologetic kiss before slowly extracting himself from his partner. Edward hisses a bit, when Alfons first moves, but grumbles at him to I get a move on, damnit/I when the younger boy hesitates.

"Now untie me," he demands, when his first complaint has been taken care of. He squirms again, and Alfons smiles, crawls up the bed, and fumbles with the knot, made stubborn by constant strain.

It takes a moment, but the bindings finally fall free and the older boy draws the limb to his chest, flexing his wrist experimentally.

* * *

Bah. Long time, no update, I know. But eurgh. My inspiration is flagging for this. I have no idea where to go with it from here. Forgive the shortness and whatnot. / 


End file.
